


missed you more (than I thought I could)

by detectivemeer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Kira-centric, Kitsune Kira, Multi, POV Kira Yukimura, Reincarnation, Soulmates, pet death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 21:18:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6723937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detectivemeer/pseuds/detectivemeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She didn’t mean to be away so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	missed you more (than I thought I could)

**Author's Note:**

> pls forgive (or correct!) my google translate french  
> i literally just wrote all this tonight outta nowhere, probably bc im still crying about kira not coming back :( inspired by all those scira reincarnation posts that took over my dash a while back (pls read [this](http://pocketlass.tumblr.com/post/128532524226/not-one-minute-but-this-one-2-dedicated-to) it'll tear ur heart out)  
> 

1\. He's dead, so that's just. That's just. That's--

2\. And her mom says some bullshit about love never dying and her father’s grave accepts her tears with quiet granite, a parade of memories. She finds the woods. She finds the ground, finds her knees against the leaves. A thunderstorm ripples across the hills when she presses her palms against the ground and screams.

3\. It's not like she doesn't know loss. Her father was so frail, at the end, even if his eyes were full and clear and kind as ever. She kissed the back of his hand, said _I love you_ a thousand times. It wasn't enough, nothing ever could have been. A headstone embellished with pearl white lilies and love soaked letters is still a headstone. He was still gone. He is still gone. And now--

4\. So she's not being naive, she knows, has known, what's coming. She's gotten enough, _so that's your grandpa?_ and, _are you in college yet or?_ to last several lifetimes. Ha.

So, she knows. She knows.

5\. Allison is the first one she loses.

6\. She's forty, but she could pass in a high school class. They all startle when they see her, without really meaning too. Lydia took age with grace, long hair piled on top of her head in a neat bun, lines fine and striking on her face. Heels high, lipstick bright. The _Dr._ in front of her place card looks nice, feels right. Her hug is crushing.

She blinks quickly, sizing Kira up with a grin. "You look great." They pause, and snort with laughter for a moment. "C’mon," she says, looping an arm through Kira's. "Everyone's been waiting for you."

7\. Scott McCall inspires loyalty, hope, courage. He believes, has always believed, in people and their ability to do good. And it kills him; like that kind of pure conviction always kills its host.

8\. They've all changed so much. Liam's still a baby-faced high school kid in her mind, how did he become this man? How did she let time slip past like--

They're all different and the same. Mason's masonisms, brilliant smile, the gold band around his left ring finger. Malia's abrasive tongue, her short hair, her phone full of photos of her son. Stiles, scruffy and depressed, manic, quiet, driving a deeply renovated Roscoe. Lydia's son babbling happily on her hip until she lets him down, sighing and complaining that he's really too big for that now, making Malia smile and lean in for a kiss and a tease about her superior coyote strength.

Mostly, everyone acts the adult they look. And she knows they don't mean to, and she knows she's been away, but they don't treat her like one.

She escapes to the parking lot. The tiny restaurant where the memorial’s being held has a huge awning that blocks her view of the stars when she looks up.

She stiffens, but doesn’t blink. "We weren't sure you'd come."

"Well," says Derek, trudging up the steps to the door. Kira turns her head. He smiles grimly. "Damn."

He looks old. Good, werewolf genes do that, but he's not young.

He reads her face too well. "This is fucking weird," he says.

She lets out a gust of breath. "Right?” At least someone’s finally said it.

9\. She didn’t mean to be away so long. But she thought--

10\. The skinwalkers swallow her up; their dust, moonless nights, dirt packed smiles. They hone her like a blade. God and lightning above, she loves them.

It’s all sweat, black nights with star spun cobwebs hung in the sky. Dust devils flowing from their short fingernails. Hair too long, hair cut ragged; planting pits into the ground and waiting for a seedling to sprout. The rough, exhausted laughter; baying coyotes (real, non-hybrid ones). It’s all day heat choking her from the inside, strangling sweat from her, the breath from her. Lightning on bare, bright rocks while the sun shone. Dragging thunderstorms overhead to feed their crops, dance musicless and on the tips of her toes under the warm showers. Red clay and colorless dust running tiger stripes down their skin as they’re washed clean by the sky. Electricity crackling across Kira’s tongue as she smiled.

It was something like family, something like home; something like being a soldier, something deeper than order. Days bleed to months and then on, forward, only it never feels like it. The earth is so, so old. She can feel it, sometimes, dead noon and silent as the bottom of the ocean. Her naked toes on the scorching sand, her eyes closed. Echoes; a thousand miles deep, reverberating into her soul, catching on her fingertips. Her time here, elongated it may be, is a blink compared to the history she stands upon. It’s so easy, to forget. To let herself be swallowed up. To enjoy it.

And then, one day, a coyote, half-girl half-animal, sprints in from the north. She stumbles to human legs, panting. She blinks, bites her bottom lip, and Kira, elated to see her friend, doesn’t even process the--it’s not that she’s wrinkled, or stooped, or scarred, it’s something else, a _maturity_ that takes a minute to place.

Malia hesitates in the sun. “Kira, I--we thought you should know.”

Kira spins her in a hug. “Know what? It’s so great to see you, how are you? How is everyone? I’d love to come see you guys, and I will, soon, we’ve made such progress here, but I think I still need a little more time and then--”

“Kira,” says Malia, thickly, tone cutting. “Scott’s dead.”

She thought she had more time.

11\. Kira feels like a burglar. It makes her chest rush with warmth, memories flooding her mind’s eyes. Her first break in with the boys. Plans around tables, fingers coated in Dorito dust. Scott’s eyes twinkling when he fit something together in his head, puzzle finally coalescing to completion, knowing the endgame before anyone could figure out where the starting line was.

Her fingers tremble above the knob. She shouldn’t be here. What right does she--

She’s inside before she realizes it, without even processing the motions. Key in keyhole, turn door handle, open, enter. She’s just outside, panicking, and then she’s standing on a welcoming red and purple rug in the foyer, panicking harder. It’s nice, she observes, detachedly. It’s a nice house.

The clinic must have been doing well. Or maybe Derek decided Scott was owed some recompense for all the horror his family put him through.

Maybe Scott won the lottery. The thought makes her want to laugh, but mostly, it makes her want to laugh with Scott.

The sucking, black terror of loneliness opens in her throat, trapping her breath there. She moves forward.

Tidy. Books in the bookcase. Scratch that, many bookcases, all teeming. Genre, then color, then author--first name first. Lamps, old, she recognizes some from his childhood home. Leather couch, wide TV planted on the wall, animal anatomy books on the end table, ancient texts about what look to be centaurs on the coffee table. She takes a short hallway that leads her to the kitchen. Small, clean, for the most part. A forgotten frying pan on the stove. She wonders what he made, thorns prickling her heart as she stares too long.

Photos on the fridge. Magnets that say _I HEART MARYLAND!_ and _Ronald Lu Dentistry_ pinning them to the burnished silver. Scott, grinning, arms around Stiles and Malia, graduation caps frozen in the air above them. Lydia and Malia cradling an infant between them, both of them ignoring the camera to adore the happy bundle. Stiles shoving a hand at the lens, sticking his tongue out, blushing, happy. Liam’s wedding photo, sappy and smitten with a laughing Hayden blowing a kiss at someone out of frame. Braeden on the back of a motorcycle in what looks like a canyon, scrawled in her writing in black Sharpie on the rocks, _t_ _he queen sends her regards!_ Derek and Scott hugging in front of a sign that says _Niagara Falls 5 Miles_. Lydia, Scott, Mason and a tiny white cat. Group photos with people she doesn’t recognize. Melissa McCall, tinier than Kira recalls, hair whiter than she can remember, sitting on the couch Kira kissed her son on more than a few times, beaming at the camera and holding hands with a Scott Kira doesn’t recognize. He is older, there’s something sure about his shoulders, relaxed but confident. His face is turned towards his mother, smiling so hard his eyes are squinted and creased at the corners.

Kira sinks to the ground. Nausea crashes like tidal waves in her stomach.

12\. How dare he?

13\. She makes it up the stairs.

The master bedroom’s door is cracked. She pushes it open with a creak.

It all overcomes her. It all--she’s eaten by acid, with it. The pain, the loss, the--she can’t articulate this emotion, this longing, this betrayal so large the whole world is to blame. This is Scott’s bedroom. He slept here, night after night, for years? How long did he inhabit this space? The flooring is a dark cherry wood, glistening with sunlight. His drapes are sheer and partway drawn. The bed--

His bathroom has a towel coiled on the floor, toothpaste gunking up the sink. She uncaps his shaving cream and holds it to her nose, tears burning hot behind her lids. His closet reflects a man she’s never met. Fine business suits. Rich, silk ties. Scrubs in a hamper. Bright, patterned surgical caps hung on hooks. Old, faded Star Wars shirts. Dark jeans, jeans with holes in the knees. Huge, soft gray sweaters in the drawers of his dresser. Neatly folded boxers, haphazardly jumbled socks, a--

She looks away. Shuts the drawer. A bra, purple, decorated in lace. Too small to fit him, even if he--did he--not that _she’d_ know, because they never--

Loose change sprinkled on the dresser. More photos, framed. A woman she doesn’t know, Liam and Mason graduating, his mother at a birthday party ending in 4. Stiles and Allison and Scott sitting in the cafeteria, faces smushed close to take a selfie. A pile of construction paper with wobbly crayon writing, thanking Dr. Scott for fixing their doggie/kitty/bunny/etc. Kira’s eyes sting, heart clenching.

She finds a guest room--simple, a bit modest, cool tones, a receipt in the bedside table with Stiles’ handwriting, too sloppy for her to make out. And an office--large desk, swivel chair, more bookcases. A sleek desktop computer, almost futuristic in its make. She shakes the mouse and the screen brightens to a login. Her hands hesitate a moment at the keyboard, but she dismisses the idea.

Papers slouch all along the desk’s surface. It drips medical texts and old handwritten recipes but, mostly, notes. Strategies, she pieces together. Territories drawn on maps. Contracts signed and dated. Ideas, scrunched, rushed, in the corners of things. _Ask Blanca about Aaron?_ and _to do: stop Stiles_ and _Baby shower themes? Luau 19th Century Space_ and _Mortimers_ _cannot bully us, need to talk to Edward ASAP_ and _fourth quadrant security boost, schedule Nemeton time, pickup more mugwort._

She folds her legs underneath her. The chair squeaks. She sobs.

14\. How dare he have a life? Without her? How dare he live, and live, and just--and she wishes she could accuse him of leaving, but he didn’t, and she wishes she could hate him for not finding her, but she told him not to, and she wishes she could touch him, kiss those dumb perfect lips, his brow, his gorgeous dimples, those beautiful hands. She wants him before he became whoever owned this house and she wants to discover the man who keeps books and printed photos in a world where computers have advanced a couple decades since she kept her entire life on her smartphone.

And how dare he smile in photos, take photos with people she doesn’t know, have a bra in his drawer? How dare his world not pause like hers did, in the sand and sun with skinwalkers and a sword in her palms? How dare he live, grow, become a great man, stay a good person, build something real with his life? How dare he get old without her?

How _dare_ he leave her before she came back?

15\. How dare he die?

16\. Imposter, imposer. Thief. This life, this house, this man. She has no claim, and yet here she is, crying on his papers, cursing his mortality.

She leaves the key where Stiles asked her to. She looks at the empty driveway, imagines Scott’s bike leaning on the concrete. Imagines Scott sat astride it. Young, windswept, hair askew, eyes bright--hand stretched out, waiting for her.

She shakes the image out of her eyes, and shuffles down the porch steps. Beacon Hills presses in on her, demanding attention. Street corners she doesn’t know, old ghosts she catches in the corner of her eye. She blocks it all out.

17\. The thing is, she thought she’d have time. And she was right, of course, she has more time than she could ever possibly need.

He was the one who was cut short, went bankrupt. Got robbed. Robbed the world of knowing him longer.

 _Selfish_ , she tries to think, sniffling, glaring at his grave. It forms halfway and then shudders to dust, grief roaring louder than anger ever could.

18\. It doesn’t matter who did it, because they’ve already been dealt with. It doesn’t matter, because she can’t fix it, no matter what she does.

It doesn’t matter, because Stiles says, blackly, “He’s fucking dead,” and it takes her a moment to realize he doesn’t mean Scott.

Kira’s eyes drift to Derek, to Braeden, who are suddenly interested in the bottom of their glasses. The bartender gives their little party a wide berth. Liam slips off the stool, sighing, muttering something about getting appetizers. Hayden and Mason jump after him.

“Wha--”

“Yeah, so. There’s that, at least.” Stiles smiles thinly, every word a bullet chewed and spat out.

She regrets asking, God, why did she think--

“Scott offered him an olive branch, after,” Braeden’s hands coil into fists. Kira is surprised the glass in her hand hasn’t shattered. “After everything. You have to understand, this guy--he had his chance, multiple, okay? Time and time again, every time he swung around town, the cretin, trying to destroy the True Alpha, blah fucking blah. We’ve had so many of them, and every time Scott offers them a chance, and you want to know the funny thing? Some of them actually took it. His pack is--it’s fucking ridiculous. All those people you didn’t know at the funeral, yeah, strays picked up here and there, a few that came flocking to the impossibly good and impossibly kind Alpha who would accept anyone, but the ones looking like their entire soul was in that coffin, they were the ones that Scott--God, what did he call it?” She breaks out in a laugh, devoid of mirth, something about it making Kira’s hair stand-up. She has to force herself not to absorb all the energy crackling in the air. “ _Rehabilitation_. Yeah. Jesus. I mean, it’s not like it always worked. We’re peacekeepers first, prison guards second.” Derek laughs. Kira gets the impression this is a long shared joke. “But he always tried.” Her gaze drops; her voice gravelly. “He always tried.”

Derek’s hand snakes into Braeden’s, squeezes. “Anyway,” he says, “he didn’t last long, for what he did.”

Stiles mutters, “Wish it had lasted longer.” Braeden and Derek cut him sharp looks. “What? Fuck, like I haven’t heard it enough.” His tone is mocking. “ _It’s not what Scott would have wanted._ Yeah, well, Scott’s fucking dead, so what does it matter.” He downs his drink in a gulp, pushes away from the counter and into the crowd, shoulders hunched up defensively.

Kira breathes out slowly through her nose.

“Sorry,” Derek says, gently. “He’s not been… the same.”

Braeden sighs, leans her head against Derek’s shoulder. He lifts his arm to wrap it around her, letting her rest more snuggly against his side. “None of us have been, but Stiles. I can’t help but--sometimes, I wonder if we lost them both that day.”

19\. Kira doesn’t ask who the Alpha is now. She doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to see that responsibility in Liam’s thin shoulders, or Malia’s set chin, or Derek’s weary eyes. She doesn’t want to know which poor soul will be asked to step up into the infinitely massive shoes of Scott McCall. She pities whichever one of her old friends--or, even more difficult to bear, pack members she doesn’t even know--is next in line.

20\. She doesn’t knock, ignores the bell. She trudges inside. Candles burn along the fireplace’s mantle. How old-fashioned, she thinks, a little absently.

Her mother sits, legs crossed, eyes closed, hands over knees, palms up. Kira joins her on the ground. Noshiko’s hands grasp hers, tug her close. Kira falls into her, boneless.

“Shh, my love,” says Noshiko, quiet and motherly. “It will be okay, you’ll find your love again. We always do.”

Kira doesn’t want quiet and motherly, doesn’t want to be placated. She wants to scream and tear apart the earth with her fingernails. She wants Scott.

She wants Scott, she wants Scott, she wants--Scott, Scott, Scott, Scott, Scott--

21\. “What do I do?”

“You follow your heart.” Noshiko touches the tip of her finger to Kira’s chest, then her chin, smiling.

22\. She follows her heart to Europe, where she drinks wine on a bridge, feet dangling over the river water. She doesn’t speak any language and she’s still acclimating to the new version of phones that developed as she developed herself. Her mother set her up on her plan. She toys with it in one hand, wine bottle dangling from the other. Who does she even have to reach out to with the thing?

Misery clutches cold in her gut. She drops the bottle into the river, slips the phone in her pocket.

23\. “Please,” she says; begs; embarrassment colors her cheeks.

“We have finished with you, fox.” The skinwalkers press close, roam far. She misses them, is apart, is without. God, she’s so lost. Everything just--her whole life yanked from under her feet, flipped on its head.

“You’re in control.”

“You always have been.”

“You never were.”

“You own the fox, you are the fox.”

“ _Fox_.”

They hiss, spin, kiss her cheeks with the warm wind, with their clawed fingertips.

“Leave this place.”

“Unless…”

 _Hiss, hiss._ “Unless you’ll pledge yourself.”

“Unless you’ll give your almost eternity to our desert.”

“To _us_.” Hissing not like a snake, but like heat. A sizzle of tongues.

She imagines it: sinking into them for good. It was similar, before, losing track of time, taming, forging, becoming herself, becoming the fox, learning how not to let the fox become her. But this would be different. This wouldn’t be lessons or lingering. This would be everything. Them, again, the ease, the fearful frightening fantastical sunlit storms she conjured and consumed. Shedding everything, becoming a permanent fourth head to the desert soul they’ve created, haunting and humming in the sand and sun.

It’s appealing. It’s so close to a yes, she can feel their bones lifting toward her, ready to accept her.

“I can’t,” she says, finally. Like that, they’re gone. Back beneath the sun-cooked dirt. Kira cries out, dropping to her knees. She claws at the ground, trying to dig them out.

24\. She sleeps, for three days and three nights, lying on that cracked desert ground, palm and cheek pressed flat to the dirt. To their heartbeats.

They emerge the fourth day, looking annoyed. “Leave us, fox-girl. Go find whatever water you so desperately desire.”

“Drowning dead girl. Craving fire.” A laugh, rumbling. “But afraid, afraid.”

“Set her ablaze.”

Something pokes her side.

“Leave, leave, leave.”

“Let her be.”

“She doesn’t belong here, her heart is rotten.”

“Go fix yourself, fox, we’ve already done our part.”

“I wanted to marry him,” she tells the sand. Silence and stillness. “I wanted--I had a whole life, I thought I could just--I thought I’d go back, and we’d be--he’d be--I knew it couldn’t be forever but--and he was _young_ , he was, he was still young, he still had so much to do, even if it was never with me, he was _young_ \--” The sobs pile and break like a dam, flooding out in hiccups and snot. Three hot hands press against her skin. She curls up tighter, fisting her hands, squeezing her eyes shut. They stay with her for some time, maybe a couple minutes, maybe a couple years, who can say and what would it matter. By the time she collects all the shards inside herself and stands, those hands are a cool memory, and she is alone.

25\. The years drop off her like water droplets. Beacon Hills feels like stepping into a dream.

“Hey,” says Mason, with a soft grin. He’s aged well, but there’s something inherently boyish about him. Sweet, something that draws out a grin in her as well.

“Red suits you,” she says, as casually as possible.

Mason ducks his head a bit, smiling. “Thank you. You know…” He stops himself. They look out over the edge of the cliff, at Beacon Hills, twinkling happily under the full moon. “He never forgot you. I hope you know, he always considered you part of the pack. He told every new member about you. God, he was always telling stories to the kids. You were a favorite heroine of his, and theirs. The beautiful, righteous fox spirit, a girl who had to go discover her destiny, a woman who would live a hundred lifetimes and save the world in each one.” Mason lifts his gaze, his eyes bright as blood and full of empathy. “He never stopped loving you, but he wasn’t angry. He was proud of you. And he knew, kitsune, their lives--he never thought he’d see you again, but he always, always kept you apart of the pack.”

She trembles. Her whole body, an earthquake in her heart that travels outward.

“You know, he did train me. To take over. He wanted to retire, but nobody would allow it.” Mason huffs a laugh. “Especially me. It’s still weird, most days. I keep wanting to ask him, how would you handle this? What should I do? But he trusted me. It’s intense, that trust, that belief. It makes you strive to be everything he thinks you can. I don’t know if I… well. I’m doing my best.”

Kira reaches for his hand, squeezing both of hers around it. “You’re doing great. Scott--” the name hiccups on her tongue, stealing the breath off her “--Scott knew what he was doing, when he chose you, when he, when he trained you. He picked well.”

Tears cling to Mason’s eyelashes. “Will you stay?”

She shakes her head. Explanations churn in her head. “I have some--where to be.”

“You’ll always have a home here. We’ll never stop telling your stories.” He pulls her in for a warm hug. She buries her face in his neck for a brief moment, remembering Mason the boy, who she wanted to protect, and reconciling it with Mason the Alpha, who wants to protect her. She presses a short, fierce kiss to his cheek--a thank you for upholding Scott’s legacy and Scott’s town--and then she turns, and leaves.

26\. So she lives. She moves, a lot, not enough. She’s bad at learning new languages, slow and stuttering, but she teaches herself tricks to get by on basic comprehension. She haggles at fruit stands. She screams her lungs and throat raw at concerts. She kisses a hundred hearts, furtive and fleeting. She has tea with her mother. She dreams. She fights with her mother for not telling her they were freaking _rich_ , accumulated after so many years and such a clever mind. She cries, missing her father. She adopts a cat. It’s not what she thought life would be, but it’s living.

27\. She’s walking down a street. A sweet smell tugs her forward. She clocks the source: a flower shop. A smile plays lightly on her lips.

She inhales a faceful of roses, taps the petals of some lovely lilies, and examines the orchids shrewdly. Her apartment could use some life, though Archibald, her long-faced Siamese, might try to eat the leaves.

“Need any help?”

Kira turns to a woman with a cheery green apron. It says _Marsha’s Garden_ in the middle. Her name tag reads Abbi. She has the bright, expectant grin of service workers everywhere.

Scott? She almost says it aloud. She has the sensation of being struck in the forehead with a plank of wood, or a brick, or a semi-truck at full speed. Her stomach bottoms out, her fingers numb, her lungs empty of all air. She shakes her head. Of course not. Of course, God, she's losing it. It's just a flower shop girl. Tall, grinning, tanned. Pixie cut, blue oceanic tattoo peeking from under her tank top, cresting at her collarbone. Not Scott. Not Scott, who is dead, who has been dead, who she loved and is letting go, day by day, piece by piece.

She swallows thickly, realizing she's just standing there staring. "Uh. Uh, sorry, no, no thanks."

The girl says something else but Kira's already making her way down the block. Her hands still clammy, heart racing. A mixture of food poisoning and just stepping off a rollercoaster.

She really needs to get out more.

28\. Archibald dies of liver failure. She kisses his soft head, holds his tiny paws as he’s put under. She doesn’t want to love a thing again for as long as she lives.

29\. But then, of course, there’s a parakeet that comes with the new loft she’s renting. It tweets at her in the morning and shivers when she runs a finger from the top of its head to its feathery tail.

She sighs. She looks out the window at the Eiffel Tower, to the dog-eared French tourism book, to the parakeet.

“Your name is Baguette,” she says. It twitters a high, pretty song, blue feathers rustling.

30\. Paris is nice for a time. Baguette follows her when she leaves the loft to shop. She meets local werewolves at their book club meeting, doesn’t cry when she overhears the Argent family being mentioned, and almost attacks the bookstore owner with her mouth.

“Jean is human,” explains Page, “but his parents are the Alphas of our district. Their daughter will take over, of course, but Jean is great, he’s a huge part of the pack. He hosts us in his store for meetings, and, he makes the best snacks.” Page grins, knocking shoulders against Kira. She’s older (younger, but), a translator by day, beta by night. And also sometimes day, like now, for instance. Her shifted face wolflike and fierce and somehow preppy, like the rest of her. She invited Kira to join them, welcoming the interloper Kitsune with surprising warmth, just as the local Alphas did. Jean’s parents. Jean.

Kira’s body buzzes with the need to be _near_. _Now_.

Page is distracted by a newcomer, and leaves Kira’s side to go welcome them to the meeting.

Kira makes a beeline for the checkout counter. Jean is puttering behind it, moving some books around.

“Bonjour,” she says, trying to suppress this sudden manic spinning inside of her, and failing, badly.

He turns. He’s very tall, with bottlecap glasses and a wide, square jaw. Dark skin, hooked nose, big ears. Long fingers, perched over the pages of his book. He smiles pleasantly. “Bienvenue, je suis Jean. Page m'a dit que vous alliez venir. J'espère que vous pouvez pardonner la poussière.”

“Uh,” says Kira. Her hand inches toward her bag, with her little translation dictionary.

Jean laughs. “Sorry. English, yes?”

Kira nods. “Yeah, thank you.”

“You are new?”

“Just got here.”

“Good to have you.” He smiles again, turns. Kira’s restlessness--for what, she’s still unsure--grows tenfold.

“Can I buy you dinner?” And what the fuck, _why_. She resists the urge to shrink to the floor and hide her face in her hands.

“A…” he pauses, searching. “Date?”

She nods.

His smile turns flustered. He adjusts his glasses. “Uh, je, je--oui. Yes. Uh.”

She grins. “Great. Great. I’ll, um, I’ll come back tonight? Seven o’clock?”

He pauses again, and she can see him counting and converting and finally, he nods.

31\. What is _wrong_ with her?

32\. “What is wrong with me,” she asks Baguette.

Baguette tweets lowly, hopping its tiny feet on the railing of Kira’s balcony that overlooks a small part of the city.

“I should really figure out if you’re male or female,” she muses. She flops backwards on her bed. This was good, right? Progress? It was, probably.

But it didn’t feel like progress. It felt like something else entirely.

33\. Antsy, antsy. She arrives at 6:58, after loitering down the street for fifteen minutes like a complete creep. She needs to see him, to touch him, hold him--Jesus, _slow down._

He comes out of the store with a big set of keys, locking the door behind him. He’s dressed the same but he still stuns her, again.

She blinks quickly, stuffs her hands in her dress pockets. “Ready?”

He grins a response and they carry on down the road. “I hope you don’t mind if I show you a place.” Pause. “To eat,” he adds quickly.

She leans in close to him, their arms brushing. “Sounds wonderful.”

He smiles again, adjusts the frames of his glasses. There’s something bashful and young about him, though he’s probably twenty-five or so. She wonders, suddenly, if this makes her a cougar? Oh, God. Do people even say that anymore? She’s really got to stop binging all the tv shows she missed and start reading some newspapers, or something.

He leads her down the charming cobblestones and through charming streets strung with soft white lights. They’re seated in a charming table outside, a crisp white table cloth over the round surface, pristine white cloth napkins plucked and placed on their laps. He does his best to translate the menu for her. She does her best to remember all those conversational French tapes.

Electricity hums in the air, almost palpable, and for once, it isn’t her doing. Or, it isn’t _only_ her doing.

Jean fiddles with the corner edge of his napkin. He asks if she likes cheese, and, after her affirmation, sends the waiter away with their appetizer order. Electricity hums and hums, louder, a living sound, a force of nature.

Kira shifts in her seat, flushed with warmth. Jean’s fingers are very long indeed, following the crease of the menu, sliding up down, up down. She sips the complementary water. He catches her eye over the rim of her cup, and just as quickly flicks his gaze away. Tap, tap. His fingertip to the menu crease. Tap, tap. Frame adjustment.

Kira slides her foot forward, so their ankles brush. Tap, tap. Her heart is a wild animal trapped in the cage of her throat. Her palms sweat. The back of her neck ripples and chills under a soft breeze.

Jean’s tap, tapping the menu. He stoops slightly in his seat, knees falling open, leg bumping more fully against hers.

The electricity is definitely not her doing. It is thick as moisture in the air and tingling the tips of her eyelashes, the lowest point of her pelvis.

34\. What is she doing?

35\. The appetizers don’t arrive. Or, she thinks, they probably did, but they sat neglected at an empty table. Maybe their waiter had them, or passed them off, or fed them to some pigeons.

Jean is jumpy, keeps glancing at her. She picks up the pace and his long legs match it easily. She wishes she could sprint, but he’s leading her.

“Here,” he says, finally, _finally_. The humming has turned to burning. Her legs are on fire and her hands are ice, and she’s going to die if she doesn’t touch him, now, now, now.

They take an elevator up. The numbers pass excruciatingly slow. A thousand futures suspend before them: Kira turns, kisses him. Jean picks her up by the hips and pushes her against the wall. She yanks that fucking shirt off with her bare hands, fabric ripping, buttons lost to the gallows of the elevator floor. Bodies, skin, _yes_.

Ding.

They step off. They don’t touch. The space between them, all of that _not touching_ , burns, buzzes, hums. A song of heat held between them.

His keys shake. It isn’t nerves, it’s anticipation; it’s impatience. She shakes.

The door opens, the door shuts. The keys are placed in a small bowl. They face each other, still, quiet, barely breathing.

 _Why_ , she wonders, for only a moment, and then she moves and he moves and everything is nothing at all but his skin and her skin and every contact point between.

36\. Kira scrutinizes his bedroom in the dark. The question swims in her mouth, round and round.

He sighs an almost laugh. “I know,” says Jean. “But I prefer them.”

Kira’s eyes rake over the rows and rows of DVDs. Vintage, and in the hundreds.

“Old school,” she teases, smiling at both herself and him.

He huffs. “I know, but I love film.”

“More than books?”

He nods. “More than books. I love too, but.” His hands sweep through the air, composer-like. “Cinema is in…” he searches, but says, “Où mon coeur est.”

Kira draws slow circles over said heart. She kisses the invisible ring, nestles her head against his shoulder. “Hypocrite,” she says.

He bursts with laughter, giggling, speaking rapid French. She enjoys his voice, the melody of the language, and when he tips her chin up with two fingers, she meets his lips with a smile.

37\. In the morning, she opens her eyes in a strange bed, and feels that particular, jarring disassociation that comes with being unsure of where you’re waking. She glances to her right and sees Scott sleeping with an open mouth, glasses shoved up to his forehead.

“Scott,” she breathes.

He blinks awake, fumbles the glasses down his nose, and grins. “Good morning,” he says, hair all tousled, face all dimpled, eyes all bright. Her chest cracks open with a song. He leans in, kisses her forehead, and pulls away, rolling off the bed.

“Breakfast?” Jean asks, padding out of the room. “I have eggs, I have, uh, bread. Hmm. Do you like to shop first, maybe?” His head pokes back in.

Kira slumps back against the bed, halfway to a heart attack.

38\. She loves him. What is _wrong_ with her?

She watches him over breakfast. His mannerisms are not similar to Scott’s, he looks nothing like him. He is kind, yes, funny, yes, smart, yes. Beautiful, interesting, compassionate. But he is _not_ Scott. She repeats this to herself, vehement about it. It’s cruel to both of them to conflate two separate people.

She kisses Jean goodbye with a promise to call. When she glances over her shoulder, he’s slumped up against the doorframe, starstruck, soppy smile, and adjusts his glasses. Her heart sings, clear and loud. He’s not Scott, but he is something.

39\. She loves the dust of his store, the ink smell of his hands, the glowy reflection of movies in his glasses. He kisses Baguette’s beak and bakes Kira tiny cakes of varying colors and flavors. He lounges comfortably, half-naked on her bed, fully naked in her kitchen, in her shower, on her balcony. She covers her eyes, drags him to bed, says, _think of the neighbors!_ He smirks as she climbs over him. It’s not jealousy, but it is possessive, and he loves it, and she loves that he knows and loves it without ever saying it. _I_ _am and they are welcome_ , he says. Laughter and lust consume her. It’s months but they are drenched in affection, in time together, in tiny smiles and hand holding and it feels longer, it doesn’t feel long enough. Every morning she sees Scott in his eyes but it becomes less painful, more familiar; less strange, more a comfort.

40\. “Sometimes,” says Jean, quiet as a falling feather, “I dream you.” She smiles at this. His fingers brush along her cheek, gentle, adoring. “Je t'aime.”

She says, “That one I know.”

“Too fast?”

Oddly, ridiculously, unbelievably, “No. Just right.”

He smiles. His nose bunches up under the bridge of his glasses. She eases them off his face for a moment, leans forward, and kisses the spot, before sliding them back on. He curls around her, kissing her neck softly until she falls asleep.

41\. Cancer. They get nine years together. She vomits, rinses her mouth out, and sits on her tiny balcony. A lovingly rendered painting of Baguette mid-flight adorns the wall outside, a memorial to her too short life. There is not, Kira thinks, a wall big enough to eulogize the love she felt--feels--for Jean. Thunder booms above. Whips of lightning crack across the sky, strike the earth.

42\. She doesn’t want to love another thing until she dies. She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want this, she doesn’t want all this love, all this loss inside her. Friends and family and partners, all dead or dying, all gone or going. She doesn’t want this.

43\. But then, of course, there’s a girl. Kira is struck sideways, hung by her toes, the breath punched out of her. Jea--Sco--the names fight for dominance in her mind, immediate and overwhelming. She’s short, thick thighs in booty shorts, tiny feet in high-tops. Belly peeking out from her band shirt. Hair wild, a mess of clips and pencils. Eyes big, brown--familiar, a comfort--why isn’t she wearing glasses?

“Uh, excuse me,” she says. She’s a werewolf. Her fingernails are neon blue and chipping. Her arms are flattened in freckles. She raises a pierced eyebrow, waits.

_Scott--_

“Sorry,” Kira mutters, and turns to the side to allow the girl to pass her and leave the grocery store. Werewolves in London, she thinks, ridiculously, a joke no one at this time would understand. Kira’s heart beats and beats, blossoming anew beneath her chest.

44\. Okay, she thinks. Okay, now, _seriously_ , what the fuck?

45\. “Mom,” she says, for the tenth time.

Noshiko finally pauses her description of the newest political structure of Egypt, and blinks. “Yes?”

Kira sets the tea down. She hesitates. She reaches for an Oreo--some things, she’s grateful, are eternal it seems--and stuffs it fully in her mouth. Noshiko sips her tea and waits.

Kira swallows, rough cookie crumbs scraping her throat. “I think I’m--I mean, I--I don’t know what’s going on,” she admits, finally. “But, remember Jean?”

“Yes,” she says. “Lovely young man. Could have been a better businessman, if he allowed me to help expand the bookstore--”

“ _Mom_.”

“No, I know, as you both said, he was content.” Noshiko’s mouth curls around _content_. “But he was a fine man, of course. Oh, that reminds me, did I tell you I’m seeing someone? Robert, you’ll have to meet soon. I’ll admit I’ve let myself be alone for some time, after your father, but--”

“Mom!”

Noshiko pauses an Oreo almost to her mouth. “There’s no need for this outburst, Kira, if you have something to say, by all means.” She gestures with the Oreo.

“Every day I woke up, I saw Jean as Scott,” she says, shame creeping heat into her cheeks. “I don’t--I didn’t understand it, but--he sort of--” utterly, completely “--reminded me of him, I guess, but still, I don’t know--and we fell in love so fast, but it just felt right--like, when I first saw him, literally--and now--this girl, and--and it’s the _same_ , but I don’t--”

Noshiko reaches across the table to pat her hand over Kira’s. “Dear, don’t you know? He’s your soulmate.”

“What?” She was expecting more resistance, and, also, not that. “Wait--what?”

“Kira,” says Noshiko, almost disappointed. “Do you really never read the literature I give you?”

Kira slouches back, a little, in defensive petulance.

Noshiko sighs. “Kitsune live many, many lifetimes. It can be lonely, it can be isolating. We’re not the only ones, but we are the only ones who are guaranteed a soulmate. Someone to enjoy each lifetime with, reincarnated. A flawed system, admittedly, as we have to go and find them, and it’s unclear, but I’m fairly sure that after we die, they are continuously reincarnated until we ourselves are, but, in any case--”

Kira’s head reels, spins, swirls. “What. Mom, wait, _what_ , are you…”

“--why you must meet Robert, honestly, did you never wonder why I didn’t date? I am hot, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Kira groans, dragging her hands down her face, full of daughterly mortification.

“But as I said, after your father… it’s different, when children are involved.” She takes a moment to compose herself. “But after ignoring them for so long, he rather sought me out this time.” A faint, lovely smile plays at her lips.

Kira explodes. “Are you _kidding_ me! How could you not tell me all of this sooner! You’re saying Scott’s my soulmate, and I’ve been falling in love with his, what, reincarnations? His _soul_?”

“Well!” Noshiko throws her arms up. “What did you think I meant when I said true love never dies?”

"I don't know!" shouts Kira. She isn't sure when they started shouting, but her insides are fracturing. She is on the edge of hysteria, shouting isn't that volatile, all things considered. "I thought it was just some comforting metaphorical bullshit!"

Noshiko narrows her eyes. "Language."

"Are you _kidding_ me," Kira all but shrieks, a second away from tearing her hair out.

"I am not, nor have I ever been." Noshiko pauses, then stands, and moves around the table to wrap her arms around Kira, hugging her despite her struggles. "It's all right, dear. Okay?"

Kira melts, feeling betrayed by her own body and its inability to resist a mother's hug and resenting Noshiko for knowing her so well. "Okay," she mumbles.

46\. She goes home and tries to power through the entire digital archive Noshiko had collected for her over the years. Then, instantly bored and distracted and frustrated by the dense materials, searches keywords for ‘soul’ and ‘soulmate’ and ‘reincarnation’.

47\. So. That’s, just, that’s. Great.

48\. _Scott, Scott, Scott--_

49\. He’s  _alive_.

50\. She’s in the air before she knows it, flying back to her home, a promise to return to her mother within the month for dinner with Robert. Maybe she’ll bring Scott along. The thought runs, giddily, through her mind. She feels light, bubbling with it, a tiny laugh spilling out of her.

51\. He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s--

52\. _Scott._

53\. She reads further. Scott is dead, but his soul, that lives on. In a green apron surrounded by petals, she realizes. In a bespectacled man with long-fingered hands. In a short girl with a nest of hair home to clips, pens. In, she takes this realization harder than the first, even more reincarnations she missed as she ran from her grief over and over.

And yet, still, he--they found her. Her mother said they had to go out and search for them, but the world was not this small, nor this coincidental. Something pulled them together, dragged them close. She just has to listen, and follow.

54\. “Damn. I mean,” she curses in a vaguely familiar language. Kira suppresses a sigh--it’s really not fair that she’s plagued by such a bad ear for languages. “That was something else. I’m Milene, by the way.”

“Kira,” says Kira, breathing hard. Milene picks up her hand, giving it a firm shake. They both collapse back against the sheets in giggles. Probably she should have gotten a name before sleeping with her soulmate, but she didn’t want to waste time; not ever again.

Milene’s English accent is rolling and rough, not at all crisp or posh. Kira wants to live inside it, press it into a glass and cup her ear to it all night. God, she’s dizzy with it. Loving, already being in love, looking forward to falling deeper. Scott’s eyes, Jean’s hands, Scott’s hands, Milene’s laughter. Everything, everyone, pushing in close, like a thousand parts of a single soul.

55\. “I love you,” Kira says, unafraid with it.

Milene sucks ice cream off a spoon. The patrons mill around them quietly. “God, you’re weird. I love you too, how about that?”

56\. Milene’s eyes bleed from gold to red when her alpha passes from old age. She steps into the responsibility with those tiny high-tops and a mountain of confidence. Kira watches her rule, wondering. Are values really soul-deep? Milene is firm, kind, and doesn’t allow killing, always believes in people, always offers a second chance. Kira is more cautious with the last point. Not everyone should be trusted, especially with a soul so precious.

57\. Milene teaches Kira to dance, teases her “fucking grandma moves”, and then the dancing turns to something less productive, but more fun.

“Soulmates,” Milene chews on the word. “So when I die, you’ll find me again?”

Kira doesn’t want to think about that. She kisses Milene’s tummy; tiny, tender things. “Mm,” is all she says.

“Wicked,” says Milene. “You’re stuck with me forever, that’s ice. Hey, wanna do it up against the fridge?” She wiggles her brows.

Kira buries her laughter against Milene’s stomach.

58\. “It’s weird we’re all werewolves, or werewolf adjacent, right?”

Kira shrugs. Milene likes to talk about the soulmate thing. A lot. Kira is relieved each time, to remember that this woman, that all of them, are apart of her life, forever entwined, forever overlapping.

“Maybe it’s part of your soul.”

Milene hums. “What were my favorite colors, before?”

“Um,” Kira thinks back. “Red, and green.”

“Hah!” Milene tosses her hair. “Black is best, I knew nothing back then. Wait, wait, am I your first chick?” Kira pauses. “Nice. Soulmate score for me.” Then, she drags Kira in for a filthy kiss.

59\. The dark of the room is suffocating. Milene tosses, turns, tosses, turns.

Kira wakes her with a soft nudge. Milene hugs a pillow close, facing away on her side.

“You’re not gonna…” she stops, swallowing around a lump in her throat. Her pack is small, her pride is huge, and her heart is the most fragile thing Kira has ever known. She runs her fingertips up and down Milene’s shoulder blades. “You’re not gonna forget me, right? Like, a dozen soulmates in. You’re not gonna forget my favorite color?”

Kira curls around her. Milene’s fingers thread through her own. “I feel each of you separately and as a whole, inside my pulse, every time my heart beats. I love you more than I have ever loved. I will love you until I die, and then, I’ll find you, and I’ll love you again.” She kisses Milene’s nape, soft, chaste, a promise. “I couldn’t forget your favorite color if I tried.”

“God,” says Milene, turning in Kira’s arms until their noses brush. “You’re _so_ weird.” She drags Kira in by the ears, kissing her soundly. Kira loses her hands to Milene’s forest of hair and gladly allows herself to be dragged.

60\. “Honestly,” says Milene, “you should call me grandma when we’re out.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” says Kira. “You are impossible.”

“I’m just saying! Babe, hey, hey, babe.” Milene smirks. “I got that senior discount now, you know.”

“ _Milene_!”

“What! I’m just saying, I can keep my girl in style. Right Noshiko?”

Noshiko grins, mouth pressed together. Kira sometimes suspects she likes Milene more than she does her own daughter.

“Happy birthday, Milene.”

“See, _thank you_ , mom, you’re the best. Hey, oh, hey, Kira, let’s freak the waiter out by making out.”

Kira drops her head into her hands, laughing helplessly.

61\. “Marry me, weirdo?”

Kira sighs. “It’s about damn time.”

“Well, I didn’t want to rush into things.” Milene slips the engagement ring over Kira’s finger. Their hands are so different, now. Kira’s heart clenches, unclenches, worried for the future, ready, terrified, wanting to stay, wanting to go back. Wanting too much. All at once.

“You’re eighty.”

“Yeah, I’m still spry.” Milene pauses. “Hey, I--I’m sorry. That I never wanted to. I just--”

“I know.” She does. Then, the rest of the words come into focus. “Wait, you’re not--tell me this isn’t for me. That this is isn’t some, that you aren’t just doing this in case--”

“In case I die, you mean. Which I am.”

Kira’s eyes shut. “Please don’t.”

“It’s for you.” Milene’s fingers trace the shape of Kira’s brow. “Of course it’s for you. Isn’t that our whole thing? Doing stuff for each other?”

Kira shakes her head; her voice is wet. “Not this, please don’t--”

“Too late, babe. I’m sticking this out with you, and then we’ll see.” Her smile is small, but genuine. “Hey, who knows. Maybe next go around I’ll be more into this whole thing, we’ll have a giant wedding and stuff.”

Kira’s eyes well up. “I don’t care. I don’t, I just--I want you, here, now.”

“Well, fuck! I’m not dead, _yet_ , jeez.” And Kira laughs, feels awful for it, and laughs again, and Milene collects both of Kira’s hands in hers and kisses the ring and each one of her fingers.

62\. Milene lives longer than average, and then some, thanks to her werewolf biology and the technology of the age. It is easier and harder than ever before.

63\. She keeps the ring. She keeps the ring for the rest of her very long life and she does not, even once, even for a moment, forget the sound of Milene’s voice, the way her hands felt against her own at every year, that gorgeous cloud of hair with her pencils and her clips and the wind whipping it into a tornado, or that her favorite color was black. (“Like your hair,” she had said, running her fingers through it, mesmerized, in love. Kira kissed Milene’s brow piercing, then her mouth, and then the apples of both her cheeks, heart too full to speak.)

64\. “I miss her,” she says, cradled again in the safest home she knows: her mother’s arms. “I miss them all. I want to see them again, but I don’t want to lose them again.”

Robert has long since come and passed. Noshiko seeks her soulmates out again, each time. She cries, each time, but it seems easier, somehow, for her, though thinking that makes Kira feel guilty and contrite.

“But you aren’t losing them, dear,” says her mother. “You’re discovering them.”

65\. And so she discovers. She discovers, again, and again, and--

Ad infinitum.

The Himalayas. A gas station in Kansas City, Missouri. On top of a mountain. A restaurant, her waiter. A famous pop singer. In space, the captain of a ship. On earth, a captain of industry. Among the stars, among the clouds, among sand, dust, and dirt. Leaves and trees. One soul, two halves merging, completing. She wakes up everyday to the kindest eyes, no matter where she is, and she thinks, _Scott_ , and an echo of names, all at once, all diffusing her with warmth and hope and happiness.

66\. They run her across the world and beyond it, and she chases them, every time, every day, with her every breath. Werewolf-born, werewolf-bitten, werewolf-adopted. All of them touched in some way by the supernatural, all of them full of power and importance. They save the world, over and over. Tender hearts sowed in soil, given freely to a world that still hasn't earned the right to take them from her. But they grow back, in each spring of her life. They come back to her, and she's there when they do.

67\. There’s a funny quirk to time. You stick around long enough, watching the same soul shuffle into different bodies, eventually it’ll wind its way back a familiar face.

Beacon Hills. Her toes teeter at the town line for a long moment. She’s walking in, this time. It’s been--she honestly can’t remember how long. She’s old.

She is old.

The trees, around her, recognize her oldness, lend a whispering breeze in commiseration. Their tangled roots and connection to this old, old world, it’s ancient core, all say a fond hello. She’s still so young, in comparison to so much, but still. Like and like, and all that.

And here she is again, old, showing it more these days. Fine lines have been collecting at the corners of her eyes, the edges of her grin. A trepadatious giddiness greets her in the mirror each morning.

And here she is, not where it all started but where a great deal of it did. Beacon Hills calls, a supernatural siren song. It always does, but right now it screams. She finds curiosity winning over every other sense. It’s been a lonely century; her soulmate slipping from her search for what feels like forever, but is barely any time at all.

She takes a step forward, in.

68\. “Hello,” he says. She really shouldn’t be shocked, nothing should have the power to shock her, but here she is. Gaping. Stunned to silence. His hand hovers awkwardly between them.

She collects herself, reaches forward to meet the handshake. His palm is warm, soft. The length of his fingers, the mark of his freckles--

“It’s an honor.” He ducks his eyes and head for a moment, reverent. “Stories have been passed down about you for so long, some people think you’re a myth.”

“But you don’t,” she observes. A flash of vanity consumes her. Is she old, compared to him? It’s still difficult to tell sometimes. He looks young, true young, just out of high school young. Those new stains of time creeping into her body were a point of pride, but now they make her shoulders straighten, foolishly worried.

His chest puffs a bit. “No, never,” he swears this, declares it, some kind of accomplishment, waiting for her favor.

She smiles at him. He beams in return. Oh, her heart. Her entire soul.

“I’m Scott,” he says.

“The True Alpha,” Kira says, just for him to deny it.

He simply nods.

“And do you know my name?” she asks.

“Kira,” he says, breathy, bright-eyed, “the Kitsune.”

“You can just call me Kira.”

He laughs. It makes every part of her ache. It sets every part of her on fire. “Okay. Cool. Um, so, welcome. We’re more than happy to have you in Beacon Hills as long as you’d like. I can take you to meet the rest of my pack now, if you want.”

“Yes, I’d--” She wonders, helplessly, if they’ve all been reincarnated here. Will she see Lydia? Malia, Stiles, Derek? Will Allison still be alive? Is Scott’s mother Melissa, here? What’s his last name, who’s his best friend, has he fallen in love yet? Has he died yet? “Actually… actually I’m pretty hungry. From my travels. Could we--”

“Sure!” Scott’s grin is--it’s pitch perfect and it’s _too perfect_ and it’s just right-- “I know the best burger joint in town, if that’s cool with you.”

“That sounds perfect,” she says. She can’t help herself. She steps forward, slipping her hand into his, fingers twining.

“Whoa,” says Scott, wide-eyed. She wonders if he feels it. She wonders if he could remember, if--

She closes her eyes, inhales deeply. _Scott._ Scott, Scott, Scott. Her heart beats with it. The air breathes with it. The trees sing it, her body hums, the sky is bright, blue, beaming. She wants him, wants to steal him. Wants to preserve him. This boy, this man, this in-between--child, adult; human, wolf. This other half of her soul. She would like to cup his perfectly uneven jawline in her hands, dip her mouth in for a kiss. She would like to kiss every piece of him, the brown curve of his neck, his knuckles and kneecaps and lips, over and over. She would like to grab his hand, run, just run. She could give him everything, finally. They could do it over. She’ll buy him a house, she’ll fill it with outdated, useless paper books, printed photographs. Cracked spines, colored ink. His skin, his smile, his breath, his hands, hands, hands. That heartbeat, beneath her ear, under her mouth. The entirety of him, every bit, swallowed up sum.

She won’t leave him for a moment, she’ll be greedy with his time, take and take until the hunt is on again and she’s replesent with memories she didn’t get the first go around.

But, perhaps, they can start with burgers.

**Author's Note:**

> come cry about ur unresolved kira/scira issues w me on [tumblor](http://katsofmeer.tumblr.com/)


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